


Briena Tart Undercover

by Lady_in_Red



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Flirting, Developing Relationship, F/M, Lingerie, Porn with Feelings, Romantic Fluff, Smut, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:54:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22720552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_in_Red/pseuds/Lady_in_Red
Summary: Brienne of Tarth, bodyguard to the Westerosi elite, loves her job. That it leaves her little free time to pursue a personal life is a perk, not problem, until a mix-up at the local coffee shop opens up new possibilities with the coworker who fascinates and frustrates her most.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 402
Kudos: 924





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Awhile back, a Russian Etsy vendor posted a hilariously stilted description of the Oathkeeper jewelry she was selling, and said the sword belonged to "Briena Tart." And this idea snuck up on me. Enjoy!

It started innocently enough, with a barista butchering her name on her morning cup of coffee. Jaime saw it and insisted that she must have taken someone else’s cup, that his staid, serious coworker was definitely a black coffee or macchiato drinker, not the type to indulge a craving for a dark chocolate mocha with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. 

He was smiling when he said this, green eyes twinkling merrily, while every word stabbed deep. He didn’t mean anything by it, but he wasn’t wrong, either. 

Briena Tart, a porn name if she’d ever heard one, was sexy and fun and a little dangerous, all the things Brienne Tarth most definitely was not.

Brienne knew she was boring. Quiet. As much a wallflower as she could be given that intimidation and violence were core components of her job. Security was a good fit for her. She was meant to be furniture, menacing but part of the background wherever Sansa Stark happened to be. 

Jaime Lannister couldn’t blend in if he tried. Over his years as Cersei Baratheon’s bodyguard, he’d been mistaken for her lover on multiple occasions. Brienne had suspected for awhile that Cersei called the paparazzi herself when she was annoyed with her husband. Jaime only smirked when reporters asked about her. It was safer to say nothing than to have his words twisted. 

He ran his mouth enough at the office, between assignments. Some days Brienne thought he’d been put on this earth specifically to plague her, and she wondered what she’d done in a former life to deserve it. Whenever she was in the office, he was always around, making little comments, asking about her nonexistent weekend and evening plans. His comments had grown strangely flirty over the past few months, annoying her and disappointing a number of their colleagues. Brienne was certain he was doing it to keep the girls on the office staff from tying him to a chair and having their way with him. Not that it was any of her business if he indulged in extracurricular activities with the staff or anyone else. She certainly had no claim on him.

And then one night he called her. 

They were both on assignment, Jaime in Oldtown and Brienne at the Gates of the Moon. The days were busy, but the nights were long and often boring. Brienne usually didn’t answer calls from unknown numbers, but she was tired and desperate for a distraction, and telling off a telemarketer might keep her busy for a few minutes. “Hello?”

“Hi, I hope I have the right number. I’m looking for someone.” She recognized that smooth voice, deep and resonant and somehow charming even without his smile attached. He smiled often, at odds with his fierce public persona. Whenever she saw him photographed on the job, Jaime was serious, aloof, the perfect bodyguard. In the office, he so often seemed on the verge of laughter, his humor drier than the Red Waste and sometimes at the expense of others. He could be fierce in the office, too, when he was working out in the office gym or training other guards. The one time she’d sparred with him, well, they’d been interrupted, which was probably for the best.

Brienne took a hasty sip of the wine she’d been drinking to moisten her suddenly dry mouth. “Lannister, cut the crap. Why are you calling?”

He chuckled. “I told you. I’m looking for Briena Tart.” 

Brienne snorted. It still sounded like a porn name. “Right. Goodnight, Jaime.”

“Oh, you must be her. You can’t be Brienne. She never calls me anything but Lannister.” His voice was rough, a little tired. Cersei Baratheon was hosting a summit on climate issues this week. Jaime must have been on his feet all day.

She understood the hours of standing still, staying alert, and the exhaustion that followed once she could drop her guard. That was the only reason she didn’t hang up. “She calls you  _ pest _ , too.” 

He laughed, a gorgeous low rumble that made her shiver. He was so irritating, but so delicious. If he could manage to stay quiet, Jaime Lannister would make a delightful distraction. Not that Brienne indulged in that sort of unprofessional behavior. She didn’t even think of it. At least not very often. 

“What are you up to, Briena Tart?” he asked, still clearly pleased with his little joke. 

Brienne glanced around the hotel room, the sad remains of her room service dinner, the carafe of wine, the discarded file detailing tomorrow’s agenda and every person Sansa would meet with throughout the day. “Having a drink.”

“Funny,” he said, “so am I. Are you a rule-breaker, Briena Tart?”

“Not usually. I’m making an exception,” she corrected, taking another long swallow. She hadn’t known what to order, that’s how infrequently she drank. But her computer screen, the one she had to monitor this evening for her client’s safety, was currently showing a dim, shadowy hotel room where her sweet but entirely adult client was letting the pretty, useless heir to the Eyrie undress her. 

Twenty-four hour surveillance and protection, that was their firm’s promise, but some aspects of the job were more difficult for Brienne than others. This Hardyng kid was a loser, but Sansa liked the look of him, obviously, and it wasn’t Brienne’s place to register more than a token objection. So instead she had a little liquid courage to ease the embarrassment of forced voyeurism.

“What are you wearing?” Jaime asked.

“Really?” Her voice dripped with disdain, but at least he was distracting her from her screen. 

He chuckled again. “Come on, what does Briena Tart wear when she’s alone in the evening?”

Brienne glanced down at her tank top and sweatpants. She wasn’t about to describe those, he’d never stop teasing her. “What makes you think I’m wearing anything?” 

A choked noise came through the phone. “Did I interrupt something? If so, feel free to describe it in detail.”

She was grateful she had the sound muted on the computer, or he might get the wrong idea. “No, I’m just not a lingerie kind of woman.” 

“Please, every woman is a lingerie woman,” he insisted. 

No, Brienne was not, though she’d tried once. Lingerie sold in her size tended to come from shops catering to drag queens, so she’d endured her embarrassment long enough to order from a website that still occasionally sent her unwanted catalogs in the mail, and felt more than faintly ridiculous wearing something so delicate and pretty. The reception she’d received had been lukewarm at best, and she’d never worn it again. “Not this one. Trust me, it’s like putting lipstick on a pig. No one wants to see that.”

“Lipstick on a … Are you kidding? You’re not, are you?” Jaime let out a frustrated growl. “Whatever Horrible Hyle told you, don’t fucking believe him. Lingerie… It’s about the tease, sweetling. It’s not so much the wrapping, it’s the  _ unwrapping _ .” 

Brienne shivered again. He had such nice hands, big and strong and a little rough, and it was rude as hell to remind her of the things she would never have. It wasn’t that she couldn’t have a man in her bed, it was just that the few men who found her attractive tended to either bore or repulse her. Jon Snow’s friend Tormund Giantsbane hit on her every time she went to the Wall with Sansa. The way he leered might have flattered other women, but it just made her skin crawl. She couldn’t bear the thought of giving herself to a man who spoke with such crass awe about the size of her biceps.

“Don’t call me sweetling. It’s—” She struggled to find the right words, and finally retreated to professionalism. “It’s inappropriate. We’re working.”

Jaime’s heavy sigh was loud against her ear. “Tart, you’re drinking in your room. Are you really working?” 

Brienne glanced over at the computer screen again. Sansa was blessedly mostly hidden from view now, the camera tucked in an unobtrusive corner, but the sheets were undulating in a way that told Brienne exactly what was going on. “I am watching Sansa,” she said resolutely.

“Cersei passed out drunk an hour ago. Shouldn’t Sansa be in bed by now?” Jaime’s surprise was laced with confusion. It was late in Oldtown, and even later in the Vale. 

“She is,” Brienne said shortly.

Jaime was quiet for a moment, and then he cursed under his breath. “Briena Tart, are you watching your client fuck?” 

“I’m protecting her,” Brienne sputtered. “That’s my job.”

Jaime laughed. “You really are. Wow. I didn’t know you had it in you.” His voice was like honey, dark and sweet, not even the slightest bit mocking for once. He sounded impressed, delighted even. 

Frankly Brienne hadn’t known she had it in her to watch this, either. It was embarrassing, after all she had to face Sansa in the morning, but also frustrating in a way that watching Renly fuck Loras hadn’t been. That had only embarrassed her because she hadn’t realized that her client was gay until she turned on the video feed and caught Renly balls-deep in the wrong Tyrell sibling.

“Goodnight, Lannister,” she said pointedly, sneaking a glance at the screen, where Harry Hardyng was still pumping away. She’d tried just listening instead of watching, but oddly enough hearing it was worse than an occasional glance at the screen.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what I’m wearing?” he protested. 

“No!” She wanted to, though. Brienne had seen him naked once, when he walked into a sauna in Harrenhal while she was already inside. And then they’d argued, and he’d fainted in her arms. Her face heated just thinking about it. 

“I could send you a picture,” he offered.

Gods, he was going to kill her. “Goodnight, Jaime.” This time she hung up.

* * *

By morning she could almost pretend that conversation hadn’t happened. Bad enough that Harry Hardyng was doing his walk of shame out of Sansa’s room when Brienne went to wake her up in the morning. Since Sansa was still sleeping, Hardyng was clearly trying to escape without having to pretend he wanted to see her again. 

Brienne tactfully avoided mentioning Hardyng and Sansa tactfully pretended her bodyguard hadn’t been surveilling her all night. By evening, Brienne had scowled at a number of handsy Vale noblemen, her feet were killing her, and her stomach was digesting itself because Sansa’s schedule hadn’t allowed Brienne a dinner break. 

She’d already dialled room service and ordered an obscene volume of food when she noticed the package left on her bed. Brienne immediately went on alert. Sansa was next door. If the package contained a bomb, it could take out Sansa’s room too when it went off. 

She leaned close. It wasn’t ticking, so that was something. Brienne dialled the front desk and asked how the box had gotten into her room, but the answer puzzled her just as much as the package. A woman had hand delivered it to the hotel. 

The box was wrapped in silver paper, with a silky blue bow, and a card on creamy cardstock tucked into the ribbon. Brienne pulled a pair of latex gloves from her bag and put them on, then carefully worked the card free and held it up to the light, looking for any wires or bugs inside the envelope. Nothing.

Slowly she worked open the envelope and removed the card inside, holding it as far away as possible in case a toxin had been dusted on the paper. 

In unfamiliar handwriting, the card read:

_ Every woman should have something that makes her feel beautiful. I hope I got your measurements right. — J _

Someone was clearly pranking her. Or she’d passed out from hunger and would wake up face down on the bed when room service knocked. Because  _ J _ could only be Jaime Lannister, and in no universe did Jaime Lannister send her clothes. 

Unless it was a joke. Obviously. Of course it was a joke. There would be a Casterly Lions jersey inside, or a new shoulder holster. Oddly relieved, Brienne untied the bow, pulled the ribbon free, and carefully unwrapped the package without tearing the paper, just in case she was wrong and needed to preserve evidence.

Under the wrapping paper, inside a white box stamped with “Donyse Boutique” and nestled in layers of delicate white paper, Brienne didn’t find poison or a bomb or anything else she knew how to handle. 

It was a nightgown. Midnight blue silk trimmed in black lace. She picked it up gingerly, feeling more than a little foolish to be wearing latex gloves, but not foolish enough to take them off. The silk seemed to go on forever as she lifted it out of the box. A scrap of fabric fell to one side as she pulled the gown free. Matching silk panties. 

They were beautiful. Her cheeks heated, and the heat spread as she laid the lingerie out on the bed.

_ Jaime Lannister bought me lingerie.  _


	2. Chapter 2

Her steak was long gone, salad bowl bare of everything but a few slivers of onion, and she was starting on her fries when her phone rang. 

_ Pest, _ her screen read.

Brienne reached over and swiped the screen with a slightly greasy finger. “You just had to double down on the inappropriateness, didn’t you?” she said, not bothering with pleasantries.

“Cut me some slack, Tart. How am I supposed to know what’s appropriate? We’ve never met,” Jaime countered.

“Do you send lingerie to a lot of women you’ve never met?” She tried to keep up his bantery tone, but the words came out sharp.

“Don’t be jealous. What we have is special.” His tone was so light it was impossible to take him seriously. “So, did you like it?”

“They’re beautiful,” she admitted. “But you shouldn’t have. Really.”

“They? Now you’ve got me curious. Send me a picture,” Jaime asked. He said it so casually, like he wasn’t asking for something incredibly intimate.

“No way. Not my problem that you outsourced your inappropriate gift giving.” She knew most flowers men sent were chosen by their assistants or just the shop assistant and meant next to nothing, but somehow it hadn’t occurred to her that lingerie would be the same. Of course he hadn’t picked this out himself. He was hundreds of miles away in another kingdom.

“Come on, indulge me a little,” he coaxed. 

“So you can send the picture round to the whole office? I don’t think so.” She didn’t want to think that of him, but men in general had proved her caution was merited on many occasions.

“Why in seven hells would I do that?” Jaime grumbled under his breath about unfairness and stubborn women, but abruptly he stopped. “Sweet Mother, you’re wearing it, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.” Brienne glanced down at herself. She hadn’t been able to resist trying them on. She had to change out of her stiff suit anyway, it couldn’t hurt to quickly confirm that once again nothing pretty came in her size. But the gown had seemed tailored to her body, with clever darts and a hint of padding to create the illusion that she actually had breasts. It swept over her hips, down past her knees to her calves, with a ridiculously daring slit to mid-thigh on both sides. 

Jaime’s groan rumbled through the phone. “You are killing me, Tart. I’m dead. Murdered by lingerie. Have mercy. One picture.”

There was no way Brienne would do something that stupid, no matter how charming his plea, but she could give him something. She sighed. “Fine. Just remember I don’t need weapons to kill you, and I would never be caught.”

Jaime laughed as she took the phone away from her ear and fiddled with it until she had the camera app open. A selfie was entirely out of the question. She watched the screen as she moved the phone up her calf, to the hem of the gown with it’s black lace edging, the delicate lace stark against her pale knee and thigh. She tapped the button and gnawed on her lip. It was just a flash of skin against the dark silk and lace, no hint what body part was exposed.

“Tart, you still there?” Jaime’s voice came muffled from the phone speaker. 

“Be patient,” she admonished, deleting that photo and trying again. She bent her legs at an angle, watched the shadows and light fall across the silk. She tapped the button again. That was … better? Maybe? Eh. She impulsively pulled up the photo and attached it to a text. “There. Happy now?” She raised the phone to her ear again.

Scuffling on his end. He made an odd noise she couldn’t identify. “I’m going to need some landmarks here. What am I looking at?” He sounded oddly husky.

She blew out a hard breath. “A silk nightgown. Edged in lace. And my leg.”

Jaime cleared his throat. “I thought you said it was more than one piece?”

“Don’t get too excited, Lannister. It came with matching panties.” She only stuttered a little on that last word, not something she’d ever expected to say to Jaime of all people. 

Dead silence. 

“Lannister?”

If she strained, she could maybe hear him breathing. 

“Jaime?” 

More scuffling on his end. “Blue is a good color on you,” he said, voice still almost a growl. 

She laughed awkwardly. “How can you tell? There was maybe a couple inches of skin in that picture.”

“Just take the compliment, Tart,” Jaime said in exasperation. 

That was difficult. Brienne was so accustomed to mocking, no compliment seemed genuine. Particularly when it came to her looks, and most particularly from men. “Thank you, Lannister.”

“Jaime. For the hundredth time, my name is Jaime.” He huffed a sigh. “He really did a number on you, didn’t he?”

“Who?” The change of subject was jarring. The only “who” she could think of was Sansa’s dinner companion, the obsequious Lord Baelish.

“Horrible Hyle.” He managed to make Hyle’s name sound like a particularly disgusting disease, probably sexually transmitted. “Didn’t he ever tell you how absolutely astonishing your eyes are, or how making you laugh feels like winning the damn lottery?”

Brienne felt dizzy, suddenly, and took a shuddering breath. “No, he didn’t,” she stammered. 

Hyle had been a coworker, still was, technically, though he’d been sent back to the Maidenpool office. Their six months together had felt easy at first. Neither was demanding of the other’s time, they just hooked up whenever it was convenient. It was stress relief, more or less, until she discovered he was mocking her to his friends and seeing other women without being upfront about it. Jaime had always called him Horrible Hyle behind his back. After their breakup, he said it to Hyle’s face. 

“Well, he should have,” Jaime said quietly.

“You can tell him that next time you see him,” Brienne answered, stretching out her legs and watching the silk pool and dip, a long swath of pale leg exposed by one slit. 

“Maybe I will.” Jaime was quiet now, and far too serious. 

It was late, too late for both of them. Sansa had a breakfast meeting before they headed to the airport. “I should get to bed.” She didn’t actually want to get off the phone. It was nice, having someone to talk to. And Jaime was less intimidating when she didn’t have to see his stupidly handsome face.

“Me too. Want to know what I’m wearing?” The tease was back in his voice.

“Absolutely not.” That was a lie, but one necessary to her sanity. What would he wear? One of those old-school pajama sets, with pants and the soft button-down shirt? Brienne owned a few of those herself. They were extremely comfortable. Or was he a boxers and T-shirt kind of guy? Or maybe he slept in the nude. Her face heated.

Jaime chuckled softly. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

“Goodnight, Jaime,” she finally managed, and hung up before he could say anything else.

* * *

Jaime wasn’t in the office when Brienne came in late the next afternoon. Sansa’s breakfast meeting had run long enough that escorting Sansa to her Winterfell-bound charter had caused Brienne to miss her return flight to King’s Landing. 

She spent much of the afternoon completing paperwork, but her mind kept drifting back to Jaime’s wildly inappropriate but oddly thoughtful gift. And plotting. She wanted to return his volley somehow, but he was still at the Citadel following Cersei Baratheon around. 

Brienne briefly considered sending Jaime men’s pajamas, but that would just invite more teasing about her nightwear. So she buckled down with her paperwork and ignored the chatter around her, coworkers organizing to meet up for happy hour. Like every weekend, she would go home alone, settle in with a takeaway and a movie, perhaps call her father. She knew exactly what kind of gift Selwyn Tarth would recommend. Maybe this time he was right.

Brienne picked up her phone and made the arrangements before leaving the office, and smiled all the way home.

She was nearly done with her movie, empty takeaway cartons on her coffee table and a cup of hot tea warming her hands, when her phone finally rang. 

She barely needed to glance at the screen to know who was calling.  _ Pest.  _ Her phone didn’t exactly ring off the hook as a general rule. 

Her heart sped up, but she tried to sound unaffected when she answered, “How’s Oldtown?”

“Far more tolerable thanks to a little postal mishap.” Jaime’s voice warmed her even through the phone. 

“Oh, really?” She set down her cup and paused her movie. 

“Yes, it seems a bottle of Sapphire single malt for Jimmy Lanster was delivered to me by mistake.” The knowing humor in his voice was reward enough for the hoops she’d had to jump through to get his room number and arrange a swift delivery. 

“That’s a shame for Jimmy Lanster,” she pointed out.

“He’ll survive. Care to have a drink with me, Tart?”   
"I’ll have to make do with tea, but I’ll join you.” She paused. “Long day?”

Rustling filled the other end of the line, followed by several solid thumps, most likely his shoes. “Why are there so many bloody stairs in the Citadel?” 

Brienne laughed. “I don’t know. It’s been awhile since I’ve been there. I’m surprised there wasn’t a reception or something tonight. Aren’t these summits more about networking than anything else?”

“They are and there was. Cersei had a bit too much fun at the cocktail reception before dinner. I suggested she retire for the night before she permanently ruined diplomatic relations with Dorne,” Jaime said with some exasperation. This was undoubtedly not the first time he’d needed to smooth over his client’s faux pas.

“Dorne? So Oberyn Martell. Let me guess. She made a nasty comment about his sister.” It was an old story, but a terrible one. Cersei had chased Rhaegar Targaryen for years, despite his marriage to the princess of Dorne. He had never returned her affections, preferring to ruin his marriage and his career with an affair with a teenager. 

Jaime barked a laugh. “If only. No, she decided to proposition Oberyn and his paramour. When they politely declined, she insisted that the Dornish would fuck anything that moved and they should be grateful she was interested.”

“Wow.” Brienne had heard some awful stories about Cersei Baratheon before, but never from Jaime. Keeping a client’s secrets was part of the gig, no matter how much you wanted to gossip about them. 

“Yeah. Oberyn was gracious but it was time to go.” Jaime sounded exhausted. 

Brienne glanced at the clock. Jaime had likely been back in his room for at least an hour. Plenty of time to shower and eat a late dinner. “So is there anything left in that bottle?”

“Enough to cover the rest of my trip here.” He didn’t sound like he’d been drinking heavily, but Brienne was grateful again that her primary client’s worst sin was terrible taste in men. 

“Well, maybe if you’re lucky, Jimmy Lanster will lose another package,” she suggested, the words out of her mouth before she’d even considered what else she might send him. 

But it paid off because she could hear his smile when Jaime replied, “I’d like that.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments! I'm very behind on responding to them, but I will get to it. In the meantime, have another chapter.

Jimmy Lanster’s morning coffee was delivered to Jaime’s room the next day, and the one after that. His dessert might have gone astray as well when Brienne heard that Cersei had made disparaging comments about a representative of Lys, not realizing her microphone was still on and broadcasting live on WNN.

On the morning Jaime was due to fly back to King’s Landing, Brienne found Briena Tart’s coffee and pastry waiting on her desk at the office.

_ You’re going to blow my cover, but thank you,  _ she texted him. 

She was escorting Margaery Tyrell on her monthly pilgrimage to King’s Landing’s family and women’s shelters when Jaime came back, and he’d left the office by the time she returned. 

But he called again that night, and she found a coffee on her desk the next morning, directed to  _ B.T. _ this time. Just seeing  _ Jimmy Lanster  _ on her phone screen made her smile. It was like having a secret identity under her buttoned-up suit and service weapon. She didn’t even mind that Jaime’s office behavior didn’t change. They never mentioned their calls, and Jaime even occasionally teased her about the man she must have wrapped around her little finger if he sent her so many gifts. 

Brienne wasn’t sure she had him at all, much less wrapped around her finger. He called most nights, unless work kept him busy through the evening hours. He sent lunches to her, coffee found its way to her desk, takeaway showed up already paid for at her apartment. Small gifts, thoughtful but not overtly romantic. Was he just a generous friend? She could almost convince herself of that if not for the lingerie. 

Jaime had asked, more than once, to see a photo of it. Of her, in it. So far she’d laughed it off or changed the subject. Finally one night she replied, “Only if you send me a pic of you in lingerie first.”

Jaime choked a little. “Tart, they don’t make that stuff for men.”

Brienne grinned at the thought of Jaime wearing a babydoll nightie like she’d seen in the window of every shop that didn’t carry her size. Damn the man, he’d probably still look sexy no matter how ridiculous the clothes. “Are you sure?” She grabbed her laptop and opened a private browser window. She didn’t need the kind of ads this search might trigger. 

“I don’t know, maybe they do. Not my kink,” Jaime answered. He was more worldly than her in some ways, but she’d never even known him to date since they’d been working together. Perhaps he kept his private life truly private. She couldn’t be sure, but she didn’t think he was like some of their colleagues, who found their work life so unpredictable that one-night stands and friends with benefits were the extent of their romantic lives. 

The search ran and Brienne clicked to images. Men in sheer mesh pants with a hand covering their cocks to keep the image from becoming pure porn. Briefs that looked normal until you saw the hole over the ass. Men in thongs and garter belts. Thongs that looked like elephant faces with trunks to hold their cocks. Shiny gold stripper g-strings. Leather harnesses. Lace panties. Tear-away costumes fit for a bachelorette party. Brienne laughed uncomfortably. “I don’t know, Jimmy Lanster might look good in these fireman briefs. They have suspenders, you know, over the nipples, for modesty.”

“I can guess where the firehose goes,” Jaime said drily. “Is it all that bad?”

She let out a heavy breath. There was something titillating about all the skin on display, but she preferred a tease. A collar left unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up. “I guess you’ll have to wait and see.” 

“I don’t know, Tart, I think you might be all talk.” His cocky confidence, that low growl in his voice, reached across the distance between their apartments. He wasn’t really that far away, at most a few miles between her Flea Bottom apartment and his condo near Blackwater Bridge. But the distance made this safe.

Even so, Brienne’s private Internet searches went nowhere while Jaime was in King’s Landing. Only when he’d gone to Harrenhal did she finally pull the trigger on a purchase, sending a package to his hotel room with a gift note:  _ You first. — B _

Five seconds after she clicked “buy now,” she wanted to take it back. Things had been going fine. She didn’t know exactly where they were going or if Jaime minded the slow, meandering back roads route they were traveling, but they couldn’t swap coffees and phone calls forever. For some unknown reason, for now, he found her interesting. Brienne couldn’t examine that thought head on, it was too daunting. Because if she had his interest, she could lose it. And the easiest way to do that was to remind him what she looked like. 

Brienne spent the whole next day jumping every time her phone buzzed. Loras Tyrell was off at Dragonstone, so she’d been pressed into service squiring the Queen of Thorns around King’s Landing. The Tyrell matriarch didn’t need a bodyguard, no one would dare touch her, but she liked the look of bringing security with her. It often resulted in shops ushering out their other customers so she could shop in peace. Plus Brienne could carry a good number of bags back and forth to the Blackcrown limousine parked at the curb, its liveried driver standing watch to discourage the smallfolk from touching its immaculate paint and silver trim.

Lady Olenna was flipping through a rack of extravagantly expensive skirt suits with a moue of distaste when Brienne’s phone vibrated. She tried to pull it out as unobtrusively as possible, but older woman’s sharp eyes noticed everything. “Am I keeping you from something?” she asked with a pointed glare at the phone in Brienne’s hand.

She snuck a glance at the screen anyway. It was just her building super, advising that the water would be turned off for about an hour for maintenance. “No, Lady Tyrell. I’m here for whatever you need.” She shoved her phone back into her pocket.

Lady Olenna pulled a suit off the rack and held it up to herself, inspecting her reflection in a nearby full-length mirror. “What do you think of this?”

The color was all wrong, and the frills around the neckline made her look oddly turtle-like. “I think you might enjoy sending that to Lady Hightower. Isn’t her nameday coming up?”

Lady Olenna’s laugh was nearly a cackle. “Oh, you’re good, girl.” Lady Rhea Hightower was one her dearest friends and related through the marriage of their children, which actually meant that they hated each other but they adhered to the old saying,  _ keep your friends close and your enemies closer. _

“Thank you, ma’am.” Brienne liked the old woman, as prickly as she was. She could be quite generous when she wanted to be, and knew just how to turn a phrase so the person she was speaking to wasn’t quite sure if they’d been insulted or not. 

“Fetch me that green gown and tell me about this young man whose call you’re expecting.” She pointed imperiously at a lovely spring green cocktail dress mounted on a rack high up on the wall, where greedy fingers could not snag its delicate lace. 

Brienne’s cheeks burned as she crossed the store. “I don’t have a young man,” she corrected, bringing the gown back. It was heavier than it had looked, probably too heavy for Lady Olenna’s bird-like frame. 

“The pretty Lannister boy isn’t yours?” She looked both skeptical and disappointed. 

Brienne tried to deny it, but her mouth refused to utter the words, so she ended up standing there, gaping like a fish while Lady Olenna ran a hand over the embroidery on the gown’s bodice and tugged at the layers of lace in the skirt. 

“You can put this back,” she said with a dismissive wave, and made her way to a display of scarves. 

Brienne obeyed, mostly to put distance between herself and Lady Olenna. 

“Loras told me that Jaime Lannister broke his hand a few months ago punching Jon Connington’s awful cousin. I suppose that had nothing to do with you?” Lady Olenna’s gaze followed her as Brienne approached.

“Of course not. I wasn’t even there. And it was Ron’s jaw that broke, not Jaime’s hand.” She’d been on a training exercise with Podrick Payne and Hyle Hunt near Maidenpool and only heard about it when she came back. It happened at an informal dinner celebrating Lancel Lannister’s marriage to Amerei Frey, and Brienne had always assumed that Connington had voiced the rumors about why the wedding was so rushed. 

Lady Olenna’s pale, thin eyebrows rose. She passed Brienne a pair of scarves to hold. “Loras said Connington made some rather nasty remarks about your dalliance with Hyle Hunt.” 

Her cooling face heated again. Sweat was breaking out on her upper lip from sheer mortification. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.” 

Lady Olenna tutted at her and turned to regard the empty store with a sigh. “I’ll take the scarves, and the green dress for Margaery. Get the shop girl back in here. You may go outside and call Lannister if it will help you focus for the next few hours.”

Was it possible for her face to spontaneously combust? She might find out if this conversation continued. “Thank you, ma’am, but that won’t be necessary.” Even if she wanted to, Jaime was probably still wandering Harrenhal with Ser Bonifer Hasty, who was reopening the castle as a religious retreat and had requested a security consultation. He probably wouldn’t get her package for hours. And until then, she wouldn’t be able to dismiss the worry that maybe she’d tempted fate in playing this game with a man like Jaime Lannister.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to this has been such a delightful surprise, thank you again for your comments and encouragement.

By the time Lady Olenna released her and Brienne made her way home, her feet were aching and she could no longer ignore the siren call of the Tyroshi kebab restaurant a block from her apartment. Lady Olenna approached shopping like a military campaign, well-planned and lengthy, but she clearly did not believe that an army marches on its stomach. She’d looked askance at the cozy cafes littering the shopping district, perfuming the sidewalks with enticing aromas, and continued on relentlessly while Brienne’s stomach grumbled. 

Freed from Olenna Tyrell’s politely tyrannical directives, Brienne provisioned herself with enough food to feed a full battalion and a six-pack of Tyroshi beer for her nerves, then locked herself in her apartment and changed into sweats. She was not about to put on the pretty silk nightgown to eat dinner and watch a TV show about improbably attractive spies. With her luck she’d drop food on herself and the stain would never come out.

Her plate was nearly empty, along with one beer to cut the burn of the spices on her tongue, and she was feeling far more relaxed by the time the spies decided that hiding from the bad guys on a rooftop with no escape route was a great plan. It was TV. Obviously they’d find a rope to swing off the roof or a helicopter would arrive at the last moment to save them, so there was plenty of time for a makeout session and near declaration of feelings before the bad guys showed up to threaten them again. 

Her phone vibrated against her hip, and she glanced down at it.

Skin. 

Golden, tanned skin, dusted with hair just as golden. 

Muscles flexed to show off a hard abdomen to its best advantage. 

A lion rampant tattooed in black and red on one strong pectoral.

And then her phone screen went black.

Brienne scrambled to pick up the phone and turn the screen back on. It took her a moment to navigate back to messages. If she opened it, he would know she had. That stopped her for about two seconds. 

Three dots were dancing below the photo. While she was still bracing herself to enlarge the photo, the dots went away, replaced with a text.  _ Your move.  _

Brienne blew out a long breath, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. Slowly exhaled. She repeated the process once more, trying to slow her racing heartbeat. It didn’t work. Her heart was still intent on levitating her like a hummingbird. 

She tapped the screen anyway, blowing up the photo to full screen. Jaime’s torso, from his collarbones down to the first few inches of the crimson silk boxers she’d bought him. Brienne had strongly considered just buying pajama pants with a silly pattern on it. But that wasn’t lingerie. It wasn’t sexy, as if Jaime needed any help to achieve that. He was sexy just existing, in a tailored suit or a T-shirt and jeans, wrapped up in layers for winter, or sweaty and flushed from a workout. 

Not like her. Brienne needed all the help she could get. She had no idea what kind of pose would be attractive, how to hold her body to show her best angles. She wasn’t sure she had any good angles. She could barely take a selfie, bothering only when her father complained that she was never in any of the photos she sent him. 

Brienne considered asking the Internet how to take a sexy picture, but she suspected that search would only result in porn, and not a helpful kind. 

She dropped her phone on the couch and got up, cleaning up the remains of her dinner while she tried to convince herself that sending Jaime Lannister the sexiest photo of herself that she could wasn’t an incredibly stupid idea. Even the idea of trying was daunting. 

Her phone buzzed again after she’d opened another beer and sat down on the couch, staring at the television screen still frozen on an awkward moment with both spies mid-leap between buildings. Reluctantly, she touched the screen and read the message preview. 

_ We can just talk.  _

Jaime was letting her off the hook. An odd feeling swept through her. She wasn’t sure if it was relief or disappointment that he’d given up so easily. 

The nightgown was hanging in her closet, the panties folded neatly in the drawer. She had felt good wearing them, more confident, a little feminine. Certainly more appealing than in the frayed Storm’s End sweats she’d had since college. Maybe if she was wearing the nightgown she could find the confidence to show it to him.

Brienne left the phone on the couch when she went into her room to change. By the time she came back, he’d sent more messages.

_ Can I call you? _

Missed call from Jimmy Lanster.

_ Don’t make me beg.  _

_ I will. I’ll use emojis. _ 🙇

_ Don’t let me embarrass myself further. You know I don’t know what they mean. _ 🦔😍🦁

Brienne was smiling by the third message, laughing quietly to herself by the fifth. He really was ridiculous. But so godsdamned sweet. 

She wanted to be brave about this. It was just hard when he looked like him and she looked like, well, herself.

She opened her camera app and flipped to the front-facing camera. Ugh. Her face, close up and from below, was particularly unappealing. Double chin and a view directly up her nose. She held her arm out and angled the phone down like she’d seen women do at events she’d attended with Sansa. That was… not much better. Her skin was a blotchy red against the lace trim, and shadows on the silk somehow made her look oddly wide. This wasn’t going to work. Her arm wasn’t long enough, or maybe she wasn’t focusing on the right thing. Men liked breasts, but she didn’t really have any. The slight hint of cleavage this nightgown created wouldn’t be enough. 

Brienne blew out a frustrated breath and let her eyes wander her small apartment. A bowl filled with beach glass and shells sat on her coffee table, and watercolors of Tarth lined the walls. Crowded bookshelves, odds and ends from her travels, and quilts from every granny on Tarth, one for every major occasion in her life. There was even a first period quilt, though mercifully it wasn’t labeled that way. The red rose pattern was enough reminder, painfully obvious in its symbolism. 

Her apartment was cluttered and cozy, not seductive or alluring. That was what she was doing here, trying to entice Jaime somehow, she had to admit that. Draping herself over the ancient microfiber couch wasn’t an option, nor was leaning artfully against the kitchen counter. Whatever instinct normal women had for posing their bodies in appealing ways, Brienne lacked it.

Phone in hand, she wandered the apartment snapping photos, increasingly dissatisfied with each one. She was standing in her bedroom, glaring into the full length mirror on her closet door, when her phone vibrated again. 

_ Talk to me, Tart.  _

Right. Briena Tart, who was sent sweet coffees by a delicious man, who wore pretty lingerie and could definitely find some way to show it to him. 

Brienne turned away from the closet and caught a glimpse of herself in the phone screen, reflected in the mirror. That wasn’t horrible, her fair skin exposed by the low back of the gown, the sweep of the silk against the small of her back, flowing over the curve of her ass and a long line of leg visible through the side slit. The bed was visible in the background, rumpled as she’d left it that morning, jewel-toned light spilling warmly over everything from the stained glass shade on her bedside lamp. 

She snapped a photo over her shoulder and scrutinized the result. Nope, her face was visible, the profile of her bumpy nose and wide jaw far too prominent. She deleted it and turned away so just her blonde hair showed, her face entirely hidden. She did have some sense of self-preservation. 

She snapped another photo. The flash went off. Ugh. Brienne turned off the flash and moved the phone to her other hand. That was a bit more awkward, but the phone wouldn’t be so visible. 

She snapped again. 

Better. The image was soft, a little grainy. Her skin was milky pale against the dark blue silk, but the light was dim enough to hide most of her freckles. Her hair was lit almost like a halo, and the subtle curves of her hip and breast were just visible. 

No one would look at this woman and recognize Brienne Tarth, wearer of severe black suits and slicked-back hair, presumed designated driver at any work drinks outing she attended and stickler for rules and order. 

She sent the photo to Jaime before she could second guess it. 

Three dots danced across her screen almost immediately, then disappeared. 

A lump formed in Brienne’s throat. This was stupid. She should have stuck with men like Hyle, men who scratched an itch when needed and didn’t touch her heart at all. Jaime could never be that, not the endearing, annoying man who might have punched Ronnet Connington for her. The man who still called her ex Horrible Hyle. The man who had sent her a pretty nightgown because she deserved to own something that made her feel beautiful. 

The phone rang. 

She swallowed hard and answered the call, but any clever words she might have said, anything remotely seductive, vanished from her mind and all that tumbled out of her mouth was, “Hey.” 

“Thank you.” His voice was gruff. 

“For what?” She crossed the room and sat heavily on the bed, feeling suddenly shaky. The wool rug under her feet felt strange, the ancient quilt on her bed oddly rough compared to the whisper of silk sheathing her body. She felt like the world had been turned up in volume. Color, texture, all heightened. 

Jaime breathed heavily into the phone, almost a sigh. “For trusting me.”

That was silly. “I do trust you.” She would’ve stopped this madness ages ago if she didn’t. He’d earned her trust on the job, protecting her and their clients more than once. He made it easy, somehow, to let him in where she generally didn’t allow anyone. After the debacle with Hyle and the lingerie, wrestling herself into black thigh-high stockings that actually fit and lacing up the front of a black lace corset only to get a confused look and Hyle looking at his phone while she took it all back off, Brienne probably never would have bought another piece of lingerie again. And face hidden or not, she had never sent Hyle a sexy photo, even though she’d let him into her body. Thank the Seven she’d never done something so foolhardy. 

“I should thank that shop clerk, write a really smashing review online or something. You look … magnificent,” Jaime said, changing the subject so deftly she almost didn’t notice. 

She sighed and stretched out on the bed, enjoying the feel of the silk sliding against her skin. The panties were surprisingly comfortable as well. She’d been afraid they would be a thong or some similar torture device, but they fit well and somehow managed to make her look as if she had hips. “It’s quite the magic trick,” she agreed. 

“Don’t do that.” His voice was sharp, irritated.

“Do what?” As if she didn’t know. Self-deprecating humor was the first line of defense when a girl looked like Brienne did. By thirteen she’d mastered the art of deflecting any and all comments about her appearance, good or bad.

“Don’t act as if you aren’t unspeakably sexy in that photo. Which means you  _ are  _ unspeakably sexy.” Even thoroughly annoyed with her, his voice was still deliciously husky. 

Brienne’s breath caught in her throat, but she managed to stammer, “You seem to be speaking just fine.”

He laughed, but it sounded distant, a bit crackly. Had he put her on speakerphone? “Fine, not quite unspeakably. What is it Myrcella is always calling those Lysene boy banders? A snack? You, Tart, are a snack in that photo, which means you are always delicious, you just keep it wrapped up.”

A laugh burst out of her entirely without her permission. Jaime wasn’t that much older than Brienne, ten years or so, maybe twelve, but he seemed to delight in sounding like an old man, perplexed by technology and slang. His dad jokes were also on point, embarrassing his niece every time she came to the office to beg cash or a favor from him. “Jimmy Lanster, you are so full of shit.” 

She expected him to laugh and hit her back with some joke or inappropriate remark, but his response was quiet. “Can’t we be Brienne and Jaime for once?” 

Now she was annoyed. “You started it. You called me ‘Tart’ just a minute ago.”

“I know.” He sighed theatrically. “Because you’re a snack. I’m just a weirdo alone in a hotel room wearing silk boxers and nothing else.”

That image made her thighs clench. “Oh, please. You know you look like one of those statues of the Warrior.”

“Do I?” Jaime sounded amused. “Hang on.”

Something rubbed against the phone, then she heard more odd noises, Jaime mumbling to himself, and then her phone vibrated. Brienne pulled the phone away from her cheek and glanced at the screen. Jaime had sent another photo. 

“See? I doubt the Warrior ever had bedhead,” she heard distantly from the phone. 

He was just wearing the boxers, lying on a hotel bed with damp, messy hair, a small smirk and a slightly raised eyebrow betraying his amusement. It was somehow hotter than if he’d tried to look sexy. He was more approachable this way. 

Brienne put the phone back to her cheek. “Don’t tell Myrcella, but her uncle is a snack, too.”

“Keep talking like that and I might think you like me.” His voice was silky and teasing. She could picture his eyes, the slight crinkles in the corners when he smiled. 

“You’re not horrible,” she conceded.

“But you’re not going to send me a picture of the front of that nightgown, are you?” 

“Keep dreaming, buddy.”

“Oh, I will.” He was quiet for a long moment, and she thought he might push this farther into risque territory. “You should see Harrenhal. Hasty has installed a bunch of guard rails and lighting and plaques describing the sins of the old lords and how their hubris was punished through Balerion’s holy flames. It’s like reading an alternate history.”

She let him change the subject, and they stayed on the phone for hours, until Brienne couldn’t keep her eyes open anymore and her phone was dying and she could almost feel him warm and solid beside her as she drifted off.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still blown away by the response. Thank you all!

He did get a photo of the front of the nightgown, discarded on the rumpled sheets in the early morning light. Not long after she arrived at the office, he’d replied, with a photo of his red silk boxers on the floor.

Brienne was sitting at her desk when that message came through, and nearly choked on her coffee. The resulting coughing fit covered her flushed face, but forced her to assure several of her coworkers that she was fine. 

She was fine every time she snuck a quick peek at her phone throughout the morning, though the office was strangely hot in the vicinity of her desk, as she told anyone who asked. She couldn’t tell them the truth. Who would believe it? She scarcely did, and the evidence was on her phone. He’d even sent her a photo with his face in it.

By lunch, she was antsy and distracted and had been writing the same paragraph of a report for half an hour. Brienne usually ate lunch at her desk, economical healthy leftovers from home, but today she couldn’t stand to be in the office any longer. The park four blocks away called to her, with its tree-shaded benches, view of the Blackwater, and at least three decadent options for lunch along the way.

Briena Tart wouldn’t resist temptation. So she went, the crowded sidewalks no deterrent to her enjoyment of the warm sun on her face and the delicious smells wafting from a corner cafe. 

Her phone chimed as she waited in line. 

_ Have I turned you speechless? _

Brienne wasn’t quick with a quip like he was. She often felt two steps behind when she tried to banter with him. But texting gave her time to think, time to respond without his smile and his eyes and his general Jaimeness distracting her. Because that man was increasingly distracting.

It had started as the simple acknowledgement that he was almost certainly the most handsome man she’d ever met. She had actually watched women get so distracted looking at him that they walked into other people, tripped over objects, ignored conversations, and once nearly ran over a bicyclist. The rumors about his past, his wealth and general unattainability, his arrogance and often cutting humor—none of that deterred the open gawking from strangers. She often wondered if he noticed it, if it bothered him the way that it bothered her.

It was different, of course, the way people looked at her. The way they spoke, as if she couldn’t hear them. The whispers, the sniggers, the pitying looks. If she had a dragon for every person she’d overheard questioning her gender, she could buy herself a really nice pair of shoes. Heels, because fuck those people. When she was younger she’d tried to blend in as much as she could, and to some extent she still did that, especially at work where her value was in being an obvious but unobtrusive presence. But sometimes she just wanted to wear a pretty shoe, on the rare occasions she found a pair that came in her size. And sometimes she didn’t want to de-emphasize her wide mouth and puffy lips, so she owned several shades of red lipstick. 

Had Jaime ever seen her in red lipstick? She didn’t tend to dress up for company events, not after the first time, when some of the men, Ronnet and Hyle among them, had found her efforts so amusing they couldn’t stop laughing every time they looked at her all night. Months passed before she could look at that particular gold dress in her closet without cringing. Jaime hadn’t been at that party, it was long before he joined the firm. 

He’d never seen her in heels or a dress, either. She’d been closed off and buttoned up for years, even during her brief bout of insanity with Hyle. Meanwhile Jaime swanned through the office, through assignments, capable and authoritative and somehow able to rein in Cersei Baratheon’s worst impulses most of the time, while Brienne slowly got accustomed to seeing the Warrior in a black suit and reading glasses typing up reports or hitting the heavy bag in compression shorts and a tank top in the office gym. She kept expecting him to disappear into a closet and reemerge in gold armor and a white cloak, gleaming sword in hand, like the god or superhero he resembled. 

Of course, then he would speak, and the effect would be ruined. Jaime Lannister was not a god, not a superhero, just a man. Infuriating, impossible, regrettably so far irresistible. 

She ordered her food and waited by the counter, letting the delicious scents and low rumble of conversation and clinking dishes wash over her. Jaime was returning from Harrenhal soon, possibly as early as the next afternoon. She regarded his return with mingled anticipation and anxiety. Her gift to him, their latest exchange of photos, it had all upped the ante. What if he wanted to meet outside the office? What if he didn’t? 

She pulled her phone out of her pocket, scrolled through their last few texts and photos. She had to answer him, something funny, something a little provocative,  _ something. _ But no words came to mind. After a few minutes restlessly discarding increasingly terrible ideas (nothing sexy about emojis, no matter how many guys seemed to think an eggplant was peak seduction), she rummaged in her bag and pulled out a pinky-red lip pencil called Dragon Girl. Somehow she doubted the dragon queen of ancient times bothered with lipstick, but it still made her feel more confident. 

She checked the application with her phone camera, then impulsively took a photo.  _ My lips are sealed _ , she texted, and attached the close-up of her freshly-reddened lips. It was silly, the lipstick would all come off while she ate, leaving her face neutral and boring as ever before her long afternoon meeting planning security for the annual Arbor Film Festival. 

Her phone vibrated in her pocket as she walked to the park with her lunch, but she didn’t check it. Not yet. The sun was shining, the breeze off the Blackwater was fresh for once, and many of the park benches were already taken. Young office workers draped their jackets over the benches and rolled up their sleeves to avoid staining their work attire, mothers and nannies with small children sat on picnic blankets in the sun with their sandwiches and juice boxes, a few dog walkers herded their charges through the crowds trying not to trip anyone or tangle their leashes. 

It was a lovely counterpoint to her stuffy office and the certain knowledge that her colleagues would play favorites in assigning staff to this event. The talent was allowed to make requests, of course, but she didn’t approve of her team trying to trade less glamorous assignments for trailing movie stars around the Arbor. So Arianne Martell could request Balon Swann again, but Mark Mullendore would be escorting a banker to Braavos, not making himself indispensable to horror movie final girl Alys Karstark. 

A couple rose from a shaded bench just as Brienne passed, and she stopped and waited while they gathered their things and left hand in hand. She envied that, both the simple sweetness of the gesture and the freedom to be so public in their affections. 

Jaime’s response was still waiting for her, unless it was just a reminder about her meeting, or spam from her gym. 

Steeling herself, Brienne set her lunch bag on the bench beside her and pulled out her phone.

_ You’re going to blow your cover. Boring bodyguards don’t have lips like that.  _

He’d teased her last night about the image she projected, quiet, fading into the background even when the situation didn’t demand it. She didn’t want to explain how it protected her, how disappearing was a kind of armor. 

_ Not at the office, no one to catch me, _ she answered. 

_ Playing hooky? Naughty girl.  _

Brienne could almost hear the way he would purr those words, could almost see the slight smile, the way his tongue would dart out to wet his bottom lip. Heat surged through her, her cheeks hot despite the breeze wafting over her. 

She kicked off her sensible loafers and let her bare feet brush over the soft grass. Her toenails were painted a thoroughly frivolous robin’s egg blue that made her smile whenever she saw it. She leaned down and snapped a photo of her feet in the grass, then sent it to him. 

She fished her salad out of the bag and worked through it methodically, ignoring the delicious smell of the soup still waiting for her. This lunch was the best of both worlds: something she needed, and something she wanted. Duty and pleasure both, a balance she rarely allowed herself. 

Jaime’s influence, no doubt. He seemed to deny himself nothing, and why should he? He was a Lannister, wealthy and pampered from birth, even though he and his father were now estranged. Tywin Lannister was all that Selwyn Tarth was not, from what Jaime had told her. Nothing Jaime ever did pleased his father. He was a stand-out athlete, but not a leader in school. He was proud enough of his origins to tattoo the Lannister sigil on his chest not long after he turned eighteen, but Tywin thought tattoos were vulgar. And he’d shunned the family business to protect people of power and consequence instead of becoming one himself. So now he was a Lannister in name only, except for the trust his mother had left him, the one source of funds Tywin hadn’t controlled. 

Brienne knew a lot more about Jaime now than she had the day the barista had muddled her name and started all of this. But it really hadn’t started there, if she was being honest with herself. He’d turned his attentions to her before then, she just hadn’t let herself see it. She believed the rumors, the whispers about his past and his cocky persona, and didn’t let herself look any deeper. It was easier that way, to scorn a man before he could hurt her. 

Her phone vibrated. 

Brienne forced herself to finish her salad before picking it up. 

_ Wish I was there. Hasty just offered to show me the castle dungeon.  _

Brienne glanced around her as she considered her reply. There were a few couples in the park, one of them wrapped around each other like octopi. She looked away quickly. She could never do something like that. Not with people watching. People judging. Could she even sit here with Jaime without wondering what people thought of them? 

She pulled out her soup and started eating, letting the creamy, spicy broth warm her. The cool grass tickled her feet, and as the lunch crowd thinned, she started to hear birds in the trees. The more daring of the little birds darted down from their perches to snatch up crumbs left behind. 

Brienne could be a little daring too, couldn’t she? She knew at least ten ways to incapacitate a man in under five seconds. She spoke three languages and could curse in four more. She could stop hiding behind her phone. 

_ When do you get back?  _

Her phone vibrated before she could even put it down.

_ Not soon enough.  _

Brienne rolled her eyes. Such a drama queen.  _ Seriously, when?  _

The dots started jumping immediately. Obviously he was paying a lot of attention to Hasty’s dungeon tour. 

_ Tomorrow, probably. Can I call you tonight? Will you be home? _

She answered immediately, too eagerly.  _ I’ll be home. _

* * *

  
  
Brienne was home all evening, binge watching a murder mystery series without really seeing any of it, checking her phone every few minutes. She cleaned her living room and washed two loads of laundry before she finally admitted Jaime wasn’t going to call.

Maybe he was locked in Bonifer Hasty’s dungeon. Or maybe he’d just gotten a better offer.

She was lying on the couch, finally invested enough in her show to watch until the killer was revealed, when her phone rang. 

Jimmy Lanster.

She waited while it rang again, took a deep breath, and answered. “Hey.”

“Hey.” His voice was warm and relieved, and the irritation and doubt she’d harbored all evening dissipated. “I’m sorry it’s so late. Can you still talk?” 

He was offering her an out, if she wanted it, and she considered it. After hours certain he was wrapped around some waitress in the Riverlands, Brienne wasn’t really in the mood for flirty conversation, or whatever this was. 

But pushing him away sounded easy until she actually tried it. “I can talk.”

“Good, because I’ve been thinking about you all day.” Jaime sounded out of breath. 

Brienne could feel the blush warming her cheeks and chest. “I might’ve thought about you once or twice.”   
  
He laughed. “Oh, really? And what did you think about me?”

“When you were getting back from Harrenhal,” she grumbled, more honest than she’d intended to be.

“Really?” he said. “Keep that in mind.”

“Why? What did you do?” Good as he was at his job, Jaime’s poor impulse control was legendary.

“Probably something stupid,” he admitted.

“You’re being very cryptic.” Brienne got up and went to the kitchen. She wasn’t hungry, just restless, but she needed something to do with her hands.

Behind her, someone knocked on her front door. Brienne glanced down at her sweatpants and T-shirt, grateful she hadn’t put on the nightgown like she’d initially considered. “Did you send me something?” she asked suspiciously as she approached the door. 

He made a noncommittal noise, and Brienne sighed. “You don’t have to keep buying me things,” she admonished as she unlocked the door and opened it.

“Good thing I didn’t,” the man at the door said. 

“You’re here.” 

Jaime stood in her hall, still wearing his suit from work, his suitcase dragging behind him. He looked tired and a little rumpled, but he smiled tentatively at her and agreed, “I’m here. Are you going to let me in?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all are the best. My house is messier but my muse is happier this week because of your encouragement.

Brienne froze. If she opened her mouth to speak, she was just going to say, “You’re here,” again, like a broken toy. Her brain refused to spin up to full functioning, because this just did not compute.

There was a gorgeous man on her doorstep at ten o’clock at night, an objectively stunning specimen of manhood even rumpled by travel, and he was waiting to be let into her apartment. 

And she was wearing baggy college sweats and socks from a charity run with cupcakes all over them. Quite possibly the least alluring clothes in her wardrobe. Her hair was barely brushed, held back with a running headband. There were piles of folded laundry, including underwear, on her coffee table. 

His brow furrowed at her hesitation. “This was weird, wasn’t it? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have just shown up like this.” Jaime shook his head ruefully. “I’m gonna go.”

Finally Brienne’s tongue unstuck from the roof of her mouth. “No. Come in, you just surprised me.”

A small smile lit his face. “A good surprise, I hope?” 

Brienne stepped out of the doorway, letting him in. Her heart was busy trying to levitate her again, but she stopped internally flailing when she saw Jaime taking in the state of her living room. “Let me get that,” she insisted, bustling past him and grabbing a laundry hamper off the floor. As fast as she could, she scooped piles of underwear and socks into the hamper, topping it with neatly-folded T-shirts and athletic clothes. 

“Take a seat, I’ll be right back,” she told him, and pushed past him as Jaime looked at her in bemusement. 

She didn’t wait to see what he did, but she heard his satisfied groan as he sat down. Her couch was old and worn, but she’d brought it here from Evenfall precisely because it was the most comfortable couch on the planet and it was long enough that she could lay on it, which was highly unusual in her experience. 

In her bedroom, Brienne closed the door behind her and dropped the hamper by her closet. She yanked open her dresser and pulled out a pair of leggings and a T-shirt. Would it look weird if she changed? The nightgown hanging amongst her dress shirts in the closet caught her eye. No, that was totally out of the question. If she wore the nightgown for him, it sent a very definite message. A “come and get it” message her prickly legs and the probably expired box of condoms in her nightstand didn’t back up. 

No, he’d already seen her like this. Brienne dropped the clean clothes on top of the hamper and yanked the headband off her hair. She finger combed the strands into some kind of submission and stared down her reflection in the mirror. Her skin was scrubbed clean, freckles exploding all over like spilled brown sugar. Her eyelashes and brows were nearly invisible, her lips a delicate peachy-pink. There was a reason she’d left her face out of the photos she sent him, a reason beyond keeping deniability if he turned out to be a rat intent on humiliating her. 

But he’d seen all of this. He’d seen her bruised, and exhausted, and beating the shit out of a creep in a clown costume on one memorable occasion. The soft-focus fantasy girl in the pretty nightgown was just that—a fantasy. 

She went back out to the living room without changing.

Jaime was sitting on the couch, his jacket discarded on top of his suitcase. His head was tipped back against the couch, his eyes closed, his tie loosened. She wanted to sit beside him, warm and close, and nuzzle into the stubbly skin of his exposed throat. She wanted to feel the rumble of his voice through his skin. How the hell had he gone from her most annoying colleague to the last person she talked to each night? 

“Long day?” she asked softly, approaching the couch but not quite sure whether to join him there.

“Very,” he agreed. Jaime slowly opened his eyes, his sleepy gaze traveling over her. “Storm’s End, huh?”

“Yeah. I played lacrosse.” She waited for a snarky comment, something about her being more suited to rugby or wrestling, but it didn’t come.

Instead Jaime yawned. “Sorry, Hasty gets up before dawn. And he thinks coffee is sinful.” He frowned a little and stretched out a hand. “You’re very far away up there. C’mere.”

Brienne took his hand, a little shiver running up her arm from the contact of warm, rough skin. “You’re exhausted, Jaime. Let me call you a ride.”

He scrubbed a hand over his beard and pouted. “I just got here.”

She sighed, and wished he wasn’t so obviously tired. She tugged on his hand in an effort to get him on his feet. “It’s late. You stay here much longer you’re going to fall asleep on my couch. Trust me, it happens to me all the time.” 

Jaime resisted, staying sprawled on the couch. “Five minutes. Just give me five minutes.”

Brienne raised one eyebrow. “What’s going to happen in five minutes?”

Jaime let her hand drop. “Well, I was hoping, since you wouldn’t send me a picture, you’d show me that nightgown.”

“On me?” she clarified.

He nodded, a cheeky smile on his face. “Unless you want to trade. The boxers are in my suitcase.” 

For just a second, she considered calling his bluff. The nightgown would look ridiculous on him, but it would probably fit. And the boxers would be comfortable… they’d just leave her entire torso bare, her small breasts exposed to his gaze. A whole flock of hummingbirds took up residence in her stomach, matching the furious pace of her heart. “And then you’ll go home?”

He shrugged. “If you want me to.”

Brienne considered saying no. She didn’t owe him anything, and if he’d phrased it like that she would’ve had no trouble denying him. But she’d seen nothing but sincere affection on Jaime’s face since he’d arrived, and he wasn’t avoiding looking at her, either. “Fine, but remember, I can totally kick your ass.”

Jaime laughed. “The way I remember it, we were interrupted. I could’ve still won.”

“Sure you could’ve,” she shot back, her disbelief clear. Brienne had had Jaime pinned to the mat, one hand tangled in his hair, the other clamped around his wrist, when a colleague had interrupted them. From the way he’d nervously laughed and immediately left the room, Brienne knew they’d looked more like they were fucking than fighting. Sweaty, breathing hard, limbs tangled, faces so close to each other. 

They’d never had a rematch. Brienne was pretty sure now how it would’ve ended. 

“Stop stalling, Tart,” Jaime chided.

“I could haul you out of here right now, you know,” she reminded him, hands on her hips.

He smiled smugly. “But you won’t. Now come on, I’m waiting.” 

Brienne turned her back on him before he could see her own smile. She stopped first in the bathroom, dropping her sweatpants and awkwardly shaving her legs with a bit of hair conditioner and her razor. Just in case. If he expected her to look like a prepubescent girl between her legs he was just going to have to deal, because that wasn’t going to happen. Not that she planned to show him any of that, but it didn’t hurt to be prepared.

Back in her bedroom, Brienne pulled off her socks and T-shirt, trying not to look at herself too closely in the mirror. The last time she’d put in a lot of effort, Hyle had made very clear she’d wasted her time. The corset he’d barely looked at was still in her dresser, too pretty to throw away, but it wasn’t exactly something she could just put on under her dress shirt and wear to work. 

On impulse, she took off her plain cotton panties too, and dug the matching silk pair out of her drawer, dragging the flimsy scrap of silk and lace up her long legs and over her hips. She should order a few more pairs from this shop. Just for something pretty to wear for herself. Brienne’s gaze skipped right over the mirror, catching only a brief, blurred glimpse of herself as she went to the closet. She took the nightgown carefully off its hanger, making sure not to snag the delicate fabrics, and pulled it gently down over her head. 

The silk whispered over her skin, cool and soft, as it slid over her body. A few quick adjustments, and the hem was teasing her calves, her freshly smooth legs peeping out from the long slits on each side. Her heart was racing so fast she had to sit down, to suck in a few long, deep breaths and calm herself. 

Brienne glanced up at herself in the mirror, saw how blotchy her skin had become, her cheeks red and her chest flushed a brilliantly mottled pink. She looked like she was having an allergic reaction to something, but she wasn’t, just terrified that the beautiful man on her couch would be gone when she left this room. Or that he would laugh. Or that he wouldn’t. She honestly wasn’t sure which was the scariest. Because if he didn’t laugh, if he was serious about all of this, about her, it would be so easy to lose her heart to Jaime Lannister. She’d done that before, and had her heart stomped flat in the process.

Brienne got to her feet and went back to the dresser. Another tube of red lipstick lay with a pile of loose change and the wallet she sometimes carried instead of a purse. She dabbed a bit of color on her lips and tiptoed out of her room and down the hall. 

The living room was quiet, but his suitcase was still there, so he hadn’t left. Brienne took one more deep breath and stepped out of the hall.

Jaime was still sitting on the couch, his tie gone and his shirtsleeves rolled up, his head back against the couch but listing toward one shoulder, his eyes closed. His breathing was slow and even.

He was asleep. 

Brienne almost laughed. Of course he was asleep. Slowly, not wanting to wake him, she crossed the room and pulled one of her quilts off the back of a chair. This one was blue, with little pirate ships and skulls and crossbones on it. Her high school mascot was the pirates, ironic considering the island’s history, and her neighbor had made this quilt for her graduation.

As she was bending down to cover him, Jaime’s eyes fluttered and opened. A dopey smile warmed his face as he took her in.

“You’re ... breathtaking,” he said approvingly. 

“Go back to sleep,” she said softly, tucking the quilt around him. 

His brow furrowed, and he reached up to stop her from pulling away. “Come here, I want to see you,” he insisted.

Brienne overbalanced and had to grab the back of the couch. “You can see me just fine up here.” One knee was braced on the cushions, the nightgown’s slit falling wide open to reveal her leg from foot to upper thigh. The edge of her panties was just visible, and she felt very, very exposed.

Jaime swallowed hard, and his hand slipped from her arm down to her thigh. Brienne shivered as his fingers traced gently down her thigh, then up again. His hand slipped over the silk, around to her bare back, and clasped her other side. “Come here,” he urged.

It took Brienne a moment to understand what he wanted. His hazy green eyes were no help, still clearly half asleep. For all she knew he thought she was someone else. But she stopped resisting and let him guide her to straddle his lap, a pool of midnight blue silk between them as she knelt over him on the couch. 

“Better?” she asked, voice shaking a little. Brienne felt very tall like this, looking down on him. His eyes were right at the level of her chest, and she was well aware there was nothing to see there. 

Jaime leaned forward, his forehead against her chest, turned his head and nuzzled against her. His arms wrapped around her waist. “Yes,” he answered simply, then tipped his head up to look at her. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah.” Her voice was still breathier than she’d like. 

He grinned lazily. “Your heart’s pounding.” 

“I must be cold,” she grumbled.

Jaime’s hand slid up her thigh. “You don’t feel cold.”

Brienne rested a hand on his neck, then slid it up into his hair. “Neither do you.” It was harder to stay aloof when he was touching her, harder to say something clever when she couldn’t think it over for a few minutes first. 

His eyes were darker now, his breathing heavier, and his fingertips were drawing patterns on her thigh. “Are you going to make me leave now?”

Brienne had forgotten his promise to leave. She shook her head and tugged a little on his hair. “Not yet.” 

He bit his lip, eyes never leaving her face, and moved his hands to her hips. “Then come down here. You’re not close enough.” 

“Why?” Brienne kind of liked towering over him, feeling like she had him pinned. 

Jaime reached up with one hand and cupped the side of her face. “Those lips are too far away.”

She giggled at that, actually  _ giggled _ , it was so absurd, and Jaime laughed too. But then she let him pull her gently down into his lap, and suddenly they were face to face and none of this seemed funny anymore. 

“Brienne,” he said softly, his voice barely more than a growl. He kept looking at her lips. 

She shivered in his arms, nerves and arousal and anticipation swirling through her. But he didn’t move toward her, and finally Brienne couldn’t take the tension any longer. She leaned forward and touched her lips to his. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the change of rating, and thank you all again for taking the time to read and comment. The response continues to make my whole week.

Brienne meant to give him a good-night kiss, something short and sweet, a taste of what might come later, on a night when Jaime wasn’t so tired, a night when she was more prepared. 

But she’d gone about it all wrong. Good-night kisses took place on doorsteps, fully clothed, for a reason. Wearing lingerie and straddling a man’s lap were not ingredients for a short, chaste expression of affection. 

Lingerie invited wandering hands. Straddling his lap invited firm contact and the possibility of grinding against the increasingly hard bulge in his slacks. Still, Jaime was better behaved than most men she’d had on her couch. His strong, divinely calloused hands roamed her back, cupped her ass to draw her even closer, toyed with the lace that brushed the upper swells of her breasts. But he didn’t dip beneath the silk, didn’t move the straps aside to pull the nightgown low and free her breasts for his mouth. 

She wanted him to. Every place his hands lingered burned for more contact. She wanted to feel the warm, wet slide of his tongue over her nipple, the scrape of his teeth over her collarbone, the soft suction of his mouth on her throat. 

But Jaime’s lips hadn’t left hers for more than a few heartbeats, just long enough to draw a deep, fortifying breath before he plunged back in, lips and teeth and tongue exploring every way they could possess hers. Brienne was lightheaded and tingly, overwhelmed by the heat of him, the subtle, spicy smell that clung to his skin, the low groans that rumbled through him as they touched. 

Her hands were wandering too. His hair was soft and thick, and he turned to putty in her hands when she lightly scratched his scalp and the nape of his neck. He invoked the Seven in a shuddering moan when she rocked slowly against his cock.

“Brienne,” he breathed, his hand clutching her thigh. 

She took advantage of his distraction and ducked down to lick the column of his throat. He tasted of salt, and he smelled so good, warm and spicy and a little musky at the end of a long day. There was something intoxicating about him, about his reactions to her, so much stronger than Hyle or any of the forgettable men who came before. She sucked at the tendon along the side of his neck and he plunged a hand into her hair, cupping her scalp in his palm. 

“You make it so hard to be a gentleman about this,” Jaime panted. 

“You showed up at my apartment late at night and asked me to wear lingerie,” she reminded him, sneaking a hand up to his shirt front. The buttons weren’t easy to work loose with one hand, but she was highly motivated. 

“I’m not much of a gentleman,” he conceded with a laugh, then he grabbed her wrist to stop more buttons falling open. “But I want to do this right.” 

Brienne ignored him and worked her hand inside his shirt, her palm covering his tattoo. He was going to have to use a lot more pressure if he actually meant to restrain her, which she didn’t really think he wanted. His heart was pounding so hard she could feel it. She pulled back to look at him. “What, dinner and a movie? I don’t need any of that.” 

Hyle had taken her out to a movie twice, never to dinner. They’d always ordered in, ate in front of the television, and then went into her bedroom for awhile. He’d never stayed, never lingered in bed when they were done. She’d preferred it that way.

Jaime’s eyes were so dark she could hardly remember how sharply green they usually were. “But I want to give it to you. I didn’t come over here for a booty call.”

Brienne raised a single eyebrow, and watched as his cheeks flushed. 

“You sent me a photo of that nightgown on your bed, Tart,” he grumbled. “All I could think about, all damn day, was that you were naked when you took that photo.”

Brienne laughed, her hand slipping out of his shirt. “I wasn’t, actually. I just couldn’t make myself send you a picture of this.” She gestured to her front. The clever nips and tucks of fabric enhanced what she had, but couldn’t work miracles. 

Jaime growled a little and leaned in to press a soft kiss between her breasts, just above the line of the lace. “I happen to like this.” He pulled back to look her in the eye, and ran his fingertips lightly from the dip of her collarbone to the hollow between her breasts. “The shadow here, when you wear your prim dress shirts, drives me insane.” 

She couldn’t respond to that, it was so bizarre to her. It wasn’t as if she really had cleavage. The shirt had more cleavage than her chest did. So she ran one hand along the sharp line of his jaw, her fingertips scraping through the unexpectedly soft scruff of his short beard. Her cheeks and chin felt warm from his beard abrading her skin, but she didn’t care. “I like the beard,” she admitted, even though she’d once told him it made him look more like a stray dog than a lion. She leaned closer and whispered in his ear, a secret just for him. “I want to know what it feels like on my breasts, the small of my back, between my legs.”

Heat flashing in Jaime’s eyes was the only warning she got before he yanked her tight against him and twisted them so that her back slammed into the couch cushions right before his mouth took hers again. He wasn’t gentle this time. His kiss was demanding, taking what he wanted, one hand kneading her breast through the silk, the friction of his palm rubbing over her nipple so sharp she thought she might come just from his hands and his body grinding into hers. Forget levitating, she might spontaneously combust. 

“I want to send you roses,” Jaime said against her lips.

Brienne smiled and started unbuttoning his shirt again. “I hate roses.”

He huffed in irritation. “Tulips. Lilies. Whatever you want.” He kissed her, and Brienne was fairly certain he was the best damn kisser in all of Westeros. There was nothing routine or perfunctory about it. Jaime kissed like it was the main attraction, not the opening act. 

“I want to take you to dinner, or the theater, or a ballgame, or anywhere you want to go, and I want to bring you home and kiss you at your door and earn my way back in every time.” His voice was so gravelly, spoken directly to her lips. His hand found its way under the silk, fingertips toying with one nipple. 

Jaime kissed her again, and for awhile Brienne lost her mind. Nothing existed except this couch, these bodies. Finally they broke apart to breathe and Brienne took his face in her hands. “You don’t need to woo me. I’m wooed, okay? The coffee, the phone calls, the lingerie. All of it. I’m fully, completely wooed, Jaime. Now take me to bed.” 

He grinned, his gorgeous, smug, ridiculous face beaming at her like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. “On a first date? What kind of man do you think I am?” 

“You’re welcome to go home,” she offered, wearing the most innocent expression she could muster. The man had her pinned to the couch and his cock was pressed against her very damp panties. If he tried to leave now, she might just tackle him to the floor and ride him into submission. She didn’t really think he’d mind, despite his lipservice to wanting to take things slow. 

Jaime leaned down and kissed her again, slow and deep like they had all the time in the world. He pulled back only to move his lips to her jaw, then her throat, then her chest, as he slowly moved off of her and off the couch. “Funny thing, I’m not very tired anymore.”

He stood and offered her his hand. His shirt was half-open, hair wild from her hands, lips red and swollen, and his cock was obviously and impressively tenting his slacks. Jaime looked utterly wrecked, yet his boyish smirk and twinkling eyes were still sweetly endearing. Sometime, not now, because now she wanted him inside her more than she wanted to breathe, but sometime she wanted to spend the whole evening on that couch, in his arms, talking like they had on the phone, about everything and nothing. 

But right now Brienne was so turned on she could hardly see straight. So she got up, and led Jaime to the bedroom. Her bed wasn’t anything fancy, no silk sheets or expensive mattress, but it was big enough for both of them, and that was enough. Because he was right. Lingerie wasn’t so much about what it exposed. It was about the tease. And it was most definitely about the unwrapping. 

Jaime took his sweet time unwrapping her, using lips and fingers to lavish attention on every inch of skin, even the bits he saw everyday, the places that she never really thought about. Shoulders and biceps and the inside of her elbow. The thrumming pulse in her wrist. The line of her collarbone, and the sweep of delicate freckled skin across her chest. All touched and tasted and explored until she impatiently worked through his buttons and pulled his shirt off. 

His father might not like Jaime’s tattoo, but Brienne did. Not because it marked him a Lannister. She didn’t care about that. It was a warning. Jaime was handsome, well-spoken, genial when he needed to be, the very image of blue-blooded privilege. But he was also angry. Sharp-tongued and able to dispense violence with the elegant efficiency that had made their sparring so charged. She’d wanted to bare her throat to him almost as much as she’d wanted to defeat him. Jaime was a lion, protective and loyal and dangerous as hell, and he trusted her enough to show her his soft underbelly. 

So she trusted him in return, even though a persistent voice inside her kept whispering that she should turn off the lights, that he wouldn’t like what he found once he’d finished unwrapping her. Brienne delighted in everything about Jaime she discovered, her hands drifting over golden skin, firm muscles and the swirls of hair between his pecs, trailing down to disappear into his pants. She tongued his flat nipples, scraped her teeth along his flank, kissed the indent running along his hips and pointing to the cock she still hadn’t touched. Not yet. She could be patient.

But he couldn’t. Jaime took advantage of her position above him to push the other strap of her nightgown off her shoulder, the whole top sliding down to pool around her waist. And then Brienne learned the sweet rasp of his beard on her breasts, the warm pull of his lips on her nipples. He nudged her over and kissed down her spine, rubbed his bearded chin across the small of her back until she was squirming, and then tugged the silk down her long legs and tossed it to the floor. 

She lay there for a moment, keenly aware of every imperfection and the heavy, uneven pace of his breathing behind her. Jaime was kneeling on the bed, uncharacteristically quiet, his hands skimming up and down the backs of her legs, fingertips caressing her far too tenderly for her handle for long. She started to shake, the haze of lust receding enough to allow her to feel her nerves, and that wouldn’t do. She didn’t want to be inside her head for this, remembering every horrible, unkind word ever spoken about her body, her size, her face. She wanted to lose herself in his touch, in his kiss, to just  _ feel  _ for a little while. 

Brienne flipped over and tackled him to the bed, tearing open his belt and pulling his slacks down his legs and onto the floor. She expected him to tease her for her eagerness, but Jaime just looked … hungry. His pupils were totally blown, eyes dark, skin flushed, hair a tousled mess. His gaze drifted down to her silk panties at the same time she noticed the wet spot darkening the front of his boxer-briefs and lunged for them. He moved at the same time. They were fumbling and desperate and greedy and both pairs of underwear sailed across the room.

And then they were just heat and skin and panted breaths. Hands roaming, fingers slick between her folds, warm wet tongue laving her nipple. Legs tangled, broken moans and names half-spoken. He was hot under her hands, solid and controlled and powerful, and the rolling of his hips as he rutted against her turned his taut ass rock-hard in her grip. She was holding on too hard, would probably leave marks, but Jaime just moaned her name again as his fingers dipped inside her. 

“Fuck me, gods, Jaime, just fuck me,” she groaned. “I can’t—I need—” The words wouldn’t come, but she reached between them and wrapped her hand around his hard cock. He was heavy and dripping and he bit down on her nipple when she stroked him. 

She arched into him, hips moving desperately to shove his fingers deeper, but he pulled out of her and she wanted to sob at the loss. 

“Condoms?” he asked, voice raw, and just the sound made her clench a little. 

She stroked him one more time, harder, to make him feel a little of the desperation she did, and let him go. “Expired, maybe.” Brienne reached out blindly for her bedside table to check. If she couldn’t fuck him right now she might scream. 

“Okay,” he said, and slid off the bed. 

“No,” she groaned, and he laughed, low and throaty and so fucking sexy she almost crawled over and took him in her mouth. Almost. The last thread of her control kept her on the bed, one hand clutching the quilt. 

Jaime turned away, the long line of his back and his high, tight little ass so perfect she wanted to bite him there. Everywhere really. He was a buffet of delicious manhood and she wanted to devour him. He crouched by his pants, rummaging through the pockets until he popped up again and tossed a string of three condoms onto the quilt beside her. 

“Oh, thank the Seven,” she groaned. Then she smiled up at him, bemused. “Three, huh?” 

Jaime chuckled. “Gotta have goals, Tart.” He reached forward and grasped her ankles, then yanked her toward him.

“What are you doing?” Brienne squawked, the quilt dragging and bunching beneath her as she came to a stop with her ass nearly hanging off the edge of the bed.

Jaime raised one eyebrow and met her gaze with a sharp smile that said he wanted to devour her just as much. His hands trailed up her calves to her knees, letting her legs fall to the bed, feet dangling, and then he pushed her knees wide. “Someone whispered her fondest wish in my ear awhile ago, and I still need to deliver on one point,” he said in that dark, playful tone that made her wetter just listening to it. 

Her mind spiraled back, playing out their evening in a series of broken images, half-remembered words, but then he sank to his knees between her legs and she didn’t need to remember. His beard was rubbing against her inner thighs, first one, then the other. And then his fingers were trailing through her slickness, rubbing slow circles around her clit.

“Oh, fuck, Jaime,” she groaned, pushing up toward his hand. 

His other hand clamped around her thigh, holding her in place while she whined in frustration. And then he blew a stream of warm air on her folds, and leaned in to lick her, his tongue pressed flat, slowly making his way from her opening up to her clit, flicking his tongue over the tight little bud.

“Shit, oh, Gods, do that again,” she babbled, reaching down to fist his hair.

Jaime chuckled, and she could feel it against her skin. The thigh he wasn’t holding started to shake, and then his tongue was on her again, lazy, rough laps against her sensitive flesh. Soft lips and a firm tongue flickered over her clit, driving her crazy. Inside she was clenching against nothing, and finally she begged, “Fingers, please. Now.” He licked his fingers and slid two inside her, crooking them to tap against the spot that mingled pleasure and pain every time he touched it. She rocked against his face, dragging his fingers in and out of her while he sucked her clit with just the right pressure, the tip of his tongue rolling over it and then pressing, holding, while he sucked harder and crooked his fingers more and released her thigh to reach up for her breast.

Brienne burst into flame. Her thighs slammed shut on his head, her fingers clutching his hair, grinding herself against his face harder. Shameless. Mindless. Wound so tight her muscles burned, and then he groaned against her, and pleasure slammed through her, her body clenched tight around his fingers, her back arched off the bed. She stopped breathing, stars burst behind her eyelids, and then she was limp as a ragdoll, dragging a fresh breath into her lungs to soothe the burn there. 

She could smell herself in the air, and then she could taste herself, musky and wet on his lips, thick on his tongue, and Jaime was plastered to her chest, his hands in her hair and his mouth on hers. She didn’t mind his weight, needed it to anchor her to this world, this moment. 

And his hand slipped down her side, dragged her leg up around his hip, her heel skidding in the slick sweat on his back. His hot hard cock nudged against her folds. “Is this okay?” he asked, breathing hard. 

Her hands skimmed over his taut muscles, held in perfect control, his eyes wild. He looked wrecked, broken down and desperate. For her. “Jaime.” She had to say it, a choked whisper. “Yes, yes, yes.” She drew him closer, arms wrapped around him. He must’ve put the condom on at some point, she saw the empty wrapper out of the corner of her eye, but that was the farthest thing from her mind. 

Because his skin was sliding over hers and his cock was opening her up, so slowly that she moaned at the feel of him, breaching her walls, slipping inside inch by inch. Every other sexual experience of her life already paled by comparison, and he wasn’t even all the way inside her yet. 

“Open your eyes,” he whispered, nudging her cheek with his nose.

Brienne hadn’t even noticed she’d closed them, but she opened them and there he was, above her, surrounding her,  _ inside  _ her. Jaime pulled back enough that she could see his eyes, could see the strain in his tight jaw and his quivering biceps holding him up. Sweat dripped down his temple and she wanted to lick it off him, but she kissed him instead, deep and wet and dirty while he rocked in and out of her until he was as deep as he could be.

Close. Gods, she had never been so close to another man. No one had held her like this, no one had whispered her name into her hair, no one had cried out when she squeezed her muscles, deep inside, holding him tight with all her strength. No one had ever smiled at her like he did, brushing a damp strand of hair off her cheek with tenderness that seized her heart. 

“You’re mine, Brienne, mine, perfect, mine, never letting you go,” he chanted, low and rough and lost in the rhythm as he rode her, harder, faster, sprinting toward something bigger than them both, grinding his pelvis against her clit with every thrust. 

“Right there, Jaime, more, Gods, fuck, harder,” she keened when he got the angle just right, pushing her higher on every thrust, and fuck, she’d never come with a man inside her, but she was going to now. Just a few … more … thrusts… and she screamed, body bowing, hands locked around his back and his shoulder, teeth dug into his chest, the lion in her grasp even while she was totally at his mercy.

Jaime kept thrusting, her body clenching again, drawing out the pleasure that surged through her, again, harder, his hand slipping down to her ass to hold her where he wanted her. “Fuck, Brienne,” he ground out, teeth bared, and then his jaw dropped, a roar of ecstasy torn from deep in his throat, and he buried his face in her shoulder as his hips drove forward, pinning her to the bed, his cock swelling and twitching inside her as he came. 

His breath left his body in a long, slow stream against the side of her neck, and Brienne shivered. Every muscle in her body felt weak, loose. Little shudders raced through her as his cock twitched again deep inside her. Sweat slicked their bodies together, every tiny movement Jaime made sizzling through her nerves. She felt completely raw, scrubbed clean and made new. 

His ass flexed, his softening cock thrusting deep one more time before he reached between them to hold the condom in place. He slowly dragged his head up so he could look at her, eyes hazy, a soft, sated grin on his face. “The last fucking thing on this planet I want to do is pull out of you, just so you know,” he rasped, but he pulled out anyway, and flopped onto his side, carefully removing the condom and disposing of it in her bedside trash. “I want to live in this bed and spend every waking moment making you come,” he added.

The growl in his voice made her clench again, another little shudder of aftershocks chasing across her cooling skin. “Does that pay well?” she croaked.

He laughed, raw and somehow fond. “No, but the benefits are excellent.”

Brienne turned toward him, amazed she could still move, and snuggled into his side. Jaime put an arm around her and kissed her forehead. “That was …” she started, and then found she had no words.

He nodded anyway. “Yeah. We should do that again.”

She snorted a laugh, and didn’t even care how it sounded. “Right now?” 

Jaime shook his head. He raised the hand that wasn’t holding her and let it drop. “I’m old, Brienne. I’m totally spent. You have to let me recharge.” 

“I guess I could allow that,” she sighed, even though she was so fucked out she could barely move. She should get up, and pee, and brush her teeth, and she would probably regret not doing those things later, but right now she was totally content, blissed out in all the best ways, safe in Jaime’s arms, and she didn’t want to give that up even for a minute. 


	8. Chapter 8

Brienne glanced out the window as the Blackcrown sedan turned off the coast road, away from the bright lights of Ryamsport across the harbor. Alys Karstark and her co-star in  _ The Grey Girl  _ had chosen to stay far from the hubbub of the film festival, at the exclusive Vineyard Resort. It made their commute significantly longer, but the resort itself had excellent security, so Brienne and Alys had agreed to forego a camera in Alys’s room. One unobtrusive camera at the door, hidden in a convenient potted plant, sufficed. 

That camera had told Brienne what she’d already suspected from the non-disclosure agreement she’d signed. Alys and her co-star, the intensely private Sigorn Thenn, were spending their nights together. Brienne understood and respected their desire to keep their private lives private. Working together could make relationships complicated. 

Brienne slipped her phone out of her pocket and checked for messages. 

_ Writing up today’s reports. Do you want to tell Addam to keep his hands off the client or should I?  _

Brienne smiled but didn’t allow herself to laugh at Jaime’s dry critique of his old friend. Addam Marbrand was shepherding Desmera Redwyne around the festival. As the representative of the old ruling family of the Arbor, she had numerous ceremonial duties, including putting in an appearance at every gala and party hosted by the various film studios. She was also barely twenty-one, a lightly-freckled pretty redhead who’d immediately taken a liking to the burly ginger guard nearly twenty years her senior. 

Addam was a good man. She could do much worse. However, the firm’s fraternization policy was very clear. 

_ You do it. He’ll listen to you. _

Her phone vibrated again no more than a minute later.

_ He called me a cockblocker.  _

Brienne sighed.

_ Blame me if you have to.  _

His response came almost immediately.

_ Nah, I just told him the new girl has been eyeing him. _

The new “girl” would hate being called that, Brienne was certain. But Dacey Mormont could take care of herself. Brienne had gotten a few bruises sparring with her and had every confidence in the Northern woman’s skills. If she was interested in Addam, he’d have his hands full. 

Brienne put away her phone and looked up at Alys, noting how tired the girl looked. They’d attended three parties, visited a notorious but influential producer’s yacht (Brienne had never been so nervous or so vigilant in her life), and seen two movies, including  _ The Grey Girl.  _ She wore a lovely grey dress today in honor of the movie, at the studio’s request, but the color did her no favors. 

Alys shifted across from her. “Problem?” 

Brienne shook her head. “Nothing for you to worry about.” The car pulled up to the resort’s gated entrance and stopped briefly at the security checkpoint. “Are you in for the night after this?” 

Alys nodded. “Yes. I won’t need you until eight tomorrow. I have a breakfast meeting with my uncle.” She made a face, and suddenly she looked like the young girl she was. Until Alys turned twenty-one, her uncle Arnolf controlled her money, and he seemed to enjoy lording it over her.

Brienne nodded and checked that against the schedule on her phone. It would be another busy day, but she could hardly complain when the scenery and the weather were so beautiful. King’s Landing had been cold and grey when she left it. 

“And you? Are you in for the night? If I need you?” Alys asked. Despite her desire for privacy and reluctance to be monitored at night, Alys was one of Brienne’s more nervous clients, with good reason. Her assistant had given Brienne a grainy photo of a man named Patrek King who called himself Alys’s biggest fan. Alys and her team considered him a stalker. 

Brienne hesitated, and then told her, “You can always call me. I may not be in my room for awhile, though. I think I’ll go get a midnight snack before I go to sleep.” 

Alys nodded and looked out the window again as the car rolled up the long drive. 

Brienne dutifully followed Alys up to her room, checked that it was still secure, and stopped briefly in her room. Then she headed to a room on the next floor up and opened the door with a keycard.

Her snack was waiting at a table by the window.

Jaime looked delicious as always in his tight black T-shirt, his tanned arms straining against the sleeves, reading glasses perched on his nose. He was typing up the day’s report on his laptop. Her heart beat faster just looking at him. 

Brienne stepped out of her shoes by the door and crossed the room to drop into the seat across from him. “How’s Sigorn?” 

Jaime glanced up and smiled at her. “Same as always, best I can tell. He’s not exactly talkative.” Sigorn came from north of the old Wall and grew up speaking the Old Tongue. His thick accent and piercing eyes had earned him a string of villain roles. Jaime had matched his client’s look today, trading his usual crisp suit for dark jeans, black T-shirt, and a sleek leather jacket. 

Jaime’s smile turned amused as he noticed her staring at him. “Is Alys all tucked in for the night?”

Brienne snorted at that. Judging from the noises she’d heard through the wall last night, there wasn’t a lot of sleeping happening in that room. “She’s fine. Are you hungry? We could order room service,” she suggested.

Jaime shot her a suggestive grin. “I’m always hungry.”

She laughed and shook her head. “I meant for food, pest.” She was hungry for him, too, but she didn’t like to acknowledge just how much she craved him. She’d been near Jaime all day and not able to do much more than exchange quick glances. The one time he’d been able to take her hand for a few seconds in an elevator had actually made her wet, his thumb rubbing over her palm strangely erotic. They were lucky. With him assigned to Sigorn and her trailing Alys, they’d been together for most of the festival. 

It was strange, sometimes, seeing the man he showed the world, now that she knew the man he only showed her. On the job, he could be smooth and charming but was most often quiet, watchful, a little menacing. With her, he was affectionate, funny, a little needy at times, almost aggressively thoughtful. He always expected her to walk out when they argued, which was maddening. But they worked it out, every time. Jaime was exhausting in all the best ways, and she never questioned whether the difficult moments were too much to handle.

Jaime typed for another few seconds, then shut the laptop and pushed it away. He set his glasses on the table and bit his lip as he looked at her. “I just want you. Can you stay tonight?” 

Brienne considered it. “She did say she didn’t need me until eight.” It was tempting, the idea of sleeping beside Jaime, tangled up in silky sheets on the softest, most comfortable bed she’d ever slept in. Not that he would let her sleep, not for awhile yet. Not that she really minded. She’d planned for that, after all. 

Jaime got out of his chair and tugged her out of hers, straight into his arms. “There’s a stairwell across the hall, you can be at her door in under a minute.” He went up on his toes and kissed her softly. “Stay.”

The old relentlessly dutiful Brienne wouldn’t have even considered it. But the new Brienne, the one who let a bit of Briena Tart stay with her long after it became no more than a running joke between them, could take a step back and remember that Alys’s stalker was photographed working at a fitness center in Blackhaven that morning. The only danger to Alys right now was to her heart, and Brienne couldn’t save her from that. 

She nodded, with a little noise of assent, grateful she’d already set her alarm to wake her in time to return to her room before Alys needed her. 

Jaime’s answering smile was brilliant and wicked. But if he had plans for her, they’d have to wait. She put a hand on his chest. “I have a job for you, though.” 

One eyebrow raised in question, and his hands clenched restlessly at his sides. “Whatever you want.” The earnest devotion in those words was humbling. She’d never asked him for anything too unusual, nothing that would hurt him or humiliate him, but she suspected someone had, long ago. They’d talked a little about their romantic pasts, including the brief, disastrous affair he’d once had with Cersei Baratheon. In the end it hadn’t really surprised her. Cersei had always treated him like property, and he’d always been more protective of her than made sense given Cersei’s behavior. 

Brienne backed away, and took in a few deep breaths while she did it. “Sit on the bed.” She made her voice firm, but not a command. Seductive was beyond her. She’d tried. It always sounded silly to her, though Jaime didn’t seem to mind.

His eyes darkened as he complied, his gaze moving over her with significantly more heat. “You have a treat for me?” 

That caught her off guard. “What makes you say that?”

Jaime cocked his head, licked his lower lip. His hands fell to his thighs, like he had to restrain himself. The muscles tensing in his forearms made her nipples tighten. “You think I wasn’t watching you all day? I know you weren’t wearing those heels.” 

Brienne glanced down at her feet, at the strappy black heels that added a good five inches to her height. Of course he’d noticed, when she had to bend down to accept his kiss a minute ago. She shrugged carelessly. “Those might be for you.” 

“Is that all? Because I’ve never seen you wear that shirt before today and the shadow between your breasts is all wrong, Tart. It was normal earlier, just begging me to lick you there. Why don’t you show me what you’re hiding?” Jaime’s voice was still light, playful even, but he leaned forward on the edge of the bed, spread his legs a little more, and she could see the growing bulge in his jeans. 

Her button-down shirt was new, its shiny gunmetal grey the only concession she’d made to the flashier nature of this assignment. She matched Alys, after all. But unlike her usual crisp white shirts, it also better concealed everything underneath it. This wasn’t for him, much as Brienne hoped he’d enjoy it. She had demons to slay, memories to smash and replace with better ones. 

All she had to do was unbutton her shirt. 

Slowly. 

One at a time.

Watching Jaime. 

His gaze never left her fingers, deftly grasping each button, releasing it and then sliding down to the next. Hesitating before starting the process all over again.

Jaime shifted, squirmed, finally adjusted himself in his jeans with an irritated grumble. “You are killing me, Tart.” He saw something in her eyes, corrected himself. “Brienne, my darling tormenter, I am going to rip that shirt off you in five seconds.”

Brienne tried to steady her hands as she continued with no change in her pace at all. 

“Four.”

Another button slipped free, and her shirt parted a bit, her hands sliding below the small swells of her breasts. 

“Three.” Jaime sucked in a sharp breath. He could see the black lace now, the tight bow knotting the ribbon right between her breasts. The shadow he’d noticed when she arrived. He leaned forward even more, eyes nearly black, and licked his lips. 

Brienne slipped another button free. He went silent, ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands and leaving it tousled yet absurdly attractive. His hands returned to his thighs, fingers dug into his jeans until his knuckles turned white. He looked more like a lion than ever, crouched in readiness, waiting to pounce. 

The last button parted under her shaking fingers, and she ran her fingers slowly up the open placket, grasped the sides and pulled off the shirt, dropping it to the carpet. She couldn’t look him in the eye now, she had to watch his hands instead.

“Fuck, Brienne, come here,” Jaime growled. He reached out for her, but she stepped back again. 

“Not yet,” she chided, and let herself look him in the eye as she stepped out of her shoes and unbuttoned her pants. She hadn’t planned this well, hadn’t considered the difficulty of getting out of her pants with the shoes still on. 

Jaime looked like he was about to swallow his tongue, his cheeks flushed, lips wet from his tongue, his nostrils flaring like a bull about to charge. “You buy that for me?” he asked, his voice low and raspy. 

She shook her head, and dropped her pants, stepping out of them as gracefully as she could manage. She thought about stepping back into the shoes, cocked her head in question. 

“You want to fucking tower over me? Put them back on. Don’t care. Just come here.” It was more an order than anything he’d said all night, but she didn’t mind obeying. 

Brienne did step back into the shoes, because they were pretty even if she felt a bit like a giraffe in them, and she did kind of like towering over him like the Titan of Braavos. But she didn’t go to him. Not right away. She took a few seconds, watching him watching her. 

The black lace corset she’d bought to entice Hyle tied up the front with a silky black ribbon. Her taut nipples were just visible through the swirls of lace. It ended around her hips, just above the simple black satin thong it had come with. And below that, her thickly muscled thighs gleamed pale in the light before disappearing inside black thigh-high stockings edged in a thick band of lace. The heels were black, too, strappy and delicate yet definitely naughty. 

Jaime’s gaze traveled over her avidly, hungrily, head to toe, while she forced herself to remain still, aloof, watchful. Then his eyes met hers again. His expression softened. “You wore this for him?” The heat in his voice was anger now. Not at her. At Hyle. 

Brienne nodded. She didn’t elaborate. She’d told him the story before. She’d just never shown him what Hyle had spurned. 

“Come here,” Jaime said again, and the plea in his voice finally moved her to stand between his legs.

He dropped a kiss on a sliver of bare skin at her hip, his tongue trailing along her heated skin. “For the record,” he said against her flesh, running his hands up her thighs, over her ass, and down again, the touch as reverent as it was possessive. “I want you wearing anything or nothing at all.” He rubbed his beard against the tender skin of her lower belly, right above her mound, hot breath and soft lips right at the lower edge of the corset. 

Jaime looked up, all the way up the long line of her torso to her face. “I already knew he was a fool. I knew they were all fools and I was glad of it, because it meant I got to have you. But this? I love this because I can tell it’s hard for you, and you did it anyway. And you look godsdamn glorious.”

It was so Jaime to say something so unabashedly sweet while he had his hands on her ass. Brienne smiled down at him, playing with his hair, letting the relief of his reaction sweep through her. Yes, he was turned on by this, by her, and that went a long way to soothing the sting of Hyle’s rejection. But he recognized her effort, appreciated that she tried, that she wanted to do something for him, and that was no small thing either. 

He smiled, shyly, and then the smile faded. “I love you, you know that, right?” 

Brienne stopped breathing, her heartbeat loud in her ears. She’d been thinking those words for weeks, but had never said them aloud. “I know,” she finally said, voice cracking. “I love you, too.”

He sighed happily as her fingertips skritched across his scalp, his eyes slipping closed. They stayed like that for a minute, maybe two. And then he opened his eyes and looked up at her with a thousand dirty thoughts clear in his gaze. “Now, can we get to the unwrapping? I find myself suddenly ravenous.”

Brienne blushed a little at that, but she nodded. By the time the black corset hit the carpet, its ribbon lost in the sheets, she was ravenous too. Unwrapping him wasn’t nearly as fun, he just wanted to shuck everything off as quickly as humanly possible. But then his gorgeous form was laid out on those silky sheets, a buffet of delicious, wicked manliness all for her, and she devoured him. Slowly, savoring every place that made him gasp and moan. Tasting the salt of his skin and the hard length of his cock, sliding her hands over his sweat-slicked back as she held him close, legs wrapped around him as he thrust into her. 

He whispered how much he loved her, again and again, branding it on her skin, kissing the knowledge into her mouth. She loved to hear it, but she found she liked to say it more. Giving him not just the words, but the power that came with them, the power to hurt her, the trust that he wouldn’t. 

And when she regrettably had to leave him the next morning, she let him sleep. They’d see each other soon. 

On her way back to her room, she called room service and ordered a coffee to be delivered to Jimmy Lanster, compliments of Briena Tart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks, this is the end. Thanks again for your response to this fic. It's been a surprise and a delight. I will try to respond to many if not all comments you've left, but feel free to drop me an ask on Tumblr if you have any specific questions about this AU.


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